


When the Silence Starts Screaming

by The_Winter_Straw



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adult Situations, Angst, F/M, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath, POV Second Person, Questionable Consent, Reader-Insert, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-19 19:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18976720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Winter_Straw/pseuds/The_Winter_Straw
Summary: When a human breaks into a thousand pieces and no one is around to hear it, do they make a sound?





	When the Silence Starts Screaming

**Author's Note:**

> Written way back in 2013, this is a story that I really, REALLY wanted to write...for some reason. (I know the reason.) I worked on it off and on for about a year before declaring it done. It didn't turn out quite the way I wanted to, but I really liked the way I captured a few character voices in this, so up it goes. Haha, I wrote this before AoU even, so I'm a little pleased I came up with the farmhouse on my own.
> 
> All the centered sections were meant to be in italics, but I couldn't get the formatting to stick for more than a sentence at a time. I hope this is a clear enough substitute.

“How many?” he’d asked Natasha on the helicarrier, in the midst of battle, on the way to a mission, waiting to make a report. Anywhere. Everywhere. She kept saying that it didn’t matter, but it did. 

“Don’t do that to yourself, Clint,” Natasha had replied inside Stark Tower, in the infirmary, picking up food, decapitating one of the men surrounding them. Everywhere. Anywhere. Unfortunately, no amount of hair-trigger asking could surprise the answer out of her. 

Hers was not a comforting response. For months after the alien attack, Clint had wondered just who he had killed. Because Natasha seemed worried, he smiled. But he was always on the lookout, always tallying up the people he saw and wondering just who, exactly, was missing. 

When he found out, Clint realized he’d been asking Natasha the wrong question the whole time. 

“Barton.” 

It was a bright, sunshine-y day near the end of August–almost _too_ bright and sunshine-y. Clint had only just arrived at work when he heard Director Fury call his name. In the middle of a laugh at something one of his friends said, Clint looked up. Fury only eyed him stonily back. Then, slowly, he quirked a finger toward himself. 

“What’s Fury want, Barton?” one of his buddies asked. 

“No idea,” Clint answered as he got to his feet. 

Fury waited until Clint was right in front of him to turn from the room and start marching down the hallway. Dark-suited agents and officials darted past, each more intent on their own errands than whatever the Director was doing with one of the higher-ups. Clint eyed them hopefully, as if someone was going to burst in to explain what in the hell was going on. No one did. 

“What’s up, Boss?” asked Clint. Fury didn’t look at him as he answered: 

“They think it should be okay for you to see her now.” 

His mind instantly went to Natasha and his pulse skyrocketed. Had something happened to her? But he’d only seen her just the night before. Clint had to stop himself clutching at Fury’s shoulder and spinning him around. 

“Is Tasha okay?” 

That _did_ stop Fury. He paused, turned, and regarded Clint seriously through his single eye. “Natasha is fine. She has the day off.” 

Clint’s pulse settled, though his confusion did not. “Then who…?” 

“[Name].” 

Clint frowned, trying to think back. How many months had it been since the Chuthari invasion? And how many times had he seen you? Zero. But–he’d asked Natasha. He _had_. She’d made some vague reply about you being away on business SHIELD couldn’t track easily. It had been so long ago, though. Agents didn’t stay gone _that_ long. Not unless something had happened. “She’s–She’s still _alive_?” 

“She’s still alive.” Director Fury nodded and motioned for the two of them to continue on their way. “We thought it would be best to not say anything, given the circumstances.” 

“What circumstances?” 

Director Fury paused again. “You mean you don’t remember?” 

Clint shook his head. “Not a thing.” 

“Well…we’ll let her tell you, if she wants to.” 

“If she _wants_ to?” 

“I don’t have time to explain, Barton,” Fury said shortly. “Let’s just get there before she has another episode.” 

“Episode?” Clint echoed as Fury started moving again. Staring after the Director’s retreating back, he wondered if he ever should have bothered to follow at all. After a moment’s hesitation, however, Clint chased after him–slowly. 

“Director Fury!” The infirmary station attendant snapped to attention at Fury’s approach. Fury only waved him down, then slowed at the counter. 

“We’re here to see [F Name] [L Name]. Is she in?” 

“I–Um–” 

He didn’t have to answer. Clint would have recognized that voice anywhere, even if it was in a high pitched scream. Without waiting for an explanation, Clint took off running toward the source of the noise. Fury grabbed for him, but Clint had already passed. 

“Barton! Get back here!” 

Clint's boots beat against the tile. All around him, rooms flashed by, rooms mostly full of blearily staring men and women. Were all of these remainders of Loki’s influence? He didn’t have time to ponder because the scream had gained words. 

“Get away! I won’t help you! I won’t help you!” 

Why were they keeping you in the room farthest away from the entrance? Clint pushed himself harder, faster. 

“No! Get away!” 

He skidded to a halt in front of an open door. Inside, several black-clad agents were fighting to subdue a young woman. Your [color] hair was messy, your [color] eyes wide with tears, all blood drained from your face. 

“Let me go!” you sobbed. “Let me go!” 

“[Name]?” Clint breathed. You looked up. 

The screaming began anew. 

“Oh, God,” Clint breathed. “[Name].” 

You stopped screaming. Now you were simply glaring. The two agents holding you back looked at each other, clearly confused, and their momentary lack of attention was all you needed. Clint barely noticed, because he _did_ remember, and he understood. 

“I’m…sorry.” 

“Sorry?” you repeated. Clint heard footsteps behind him, racing up to the room, but you were already there, already had your fingers latched around his throat. “Make it up to me!” you shrieked. “Make it up to me by dropping dead!” 

He doubled over, black spots pounding at the edges of his vision. It would be all too easy to fight you off, but how, when you were already so frail? The two agents rushed up and grabbed you again. But it was too late. The last thing Clint saw was Fury standing in the doorway, staring down at him and demanding: 

“Who in the hell okayed leaving her door unlocked?!” 

****** 

“Get away!” the woman screamed. “Get away!” 

“Hey, hey.” Clint’s own voice was calm. He walked carefully toward her, but she was already too spooked. She kicked out desperately from her corner. Clint only just managed to sidestep. 

“Hey.” He chuckled. “What are you doing? Didn't you miss me while I was gone?” 

__

__

“Get away from me!” 

“But why should I do that,” Clint asked as he drew near enough to see her chest rapidly rise and fall with her panic, “when I came all this way just to get you?” 

******

__

Clint woke up in a bed in the infirmary. His injuries couldn’t have been too bad, since he wasn’t hooked up to anything. Underneath the light weight of the bandaging around his throat, however, he could feel the bruises on his neck tingling.

“…Ow.” 

“So you’re finally awake.” 

He sat up. Natasha sat in a plastic chair at his side, legs and arms crossed as she gazed down at him. From the silvery light spilling through the window, he could tell that it was night–late, too. 

“How long have you been sitting there?” 

“Since they stuck you in the bed,” she answered. “Are you stupid? You know not to enter a room where someone is _clearly_ having a breakdown without first checking the perimeter.” 

“Glad to see your bedside manner is as shit as usual, Nat,” Clint breathed. She didn’t crack a smile, but then, he hadn’t really expected her to. Natasha’s arms remained as tightly lashed across her chest as ever. He could feel the wry smile sliding off his face, quicker the longer he lay there like that. If Natasha wanted to play hardball, Clint could just as well. “How long?” 

“How long what?” 

“How long has she been like that?” 

Natasha might have been an expert spy, but Clint had known her long enough to read her like a book. It took only the slight tightening of her fingers across her uppers arms, her eyes moving slowly to the ceiling, to tell him he’d asked another question she did not want to answer. In the darkness and stillness of the hospital wing, Clint could easily hear the sharp intake of breath before she began: 

“Clint, don’t do this to–” 

“ _How long, Natasha?_ ” 

Her eyes immediately locked on his. Clint didn’t blink. This was one stare-down he intended to win. Several seconds later, Natasha’s shoulders fell: a clear sign of admitting defeat. Instead of answering him, however, Natasha got to her feet. 

“Tasha–” 

“Are you coming or not?” 

It took a moment for him to kick clear of his tangle of sheets, but Clint came. Through the eerily shadowed hallways Natasha led him in silence. Clint’s neck craned back and forth, toward the many doors now closed off to him. How many people slumbered inside them? 

How many sat awake in fear? 

Natasha stopped in front of your door. Clint hesitated, but she did not wait to hear his protest. After a moment of lock-picking, Natasha pushed the door silently open and motioned for Clint to step closer. He did, to see the pale specter of a woman sitting on your bed. There was no screaming when your eyes fell on him this time. You simply whimpered and pulled your knees into your chest. Clint’s heart thudded as though he were in some cut-rate horror movie. 

It was clear on your face, that same horrible thought that plagued Clint on long nights when Natasha was not around to dissuade him: “I don’t know who I am anymore.” When he looked at you, he didn’t know who you were either. 

“Since Thor took Loki back to Asgard,” said Natasha. “They all came back. They’re all still screaming.” 

__

__

****** 

_”Very_ good, Barton. You found her! Very good indeed!” 

The girl in Clint’s arms twisted, snapped her teeth at Loki, tried to wrench her body away. Clint merely tightened his grip. 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“Now.” Loki grinned down at the girl and took her chin. The girl gritted her teeth; the look of loathing in her eyes could have curdled milk. “You believe she’ll be a good thief for us?” 

“She’s the best in the business.” 

Loki lifted his scepter. 

“Excellent.” 

******

By the time Director Fury arrived in his office the next morning, Clint had already made himself comfortable in the windowsill. His eye regarded Clint firmly for only a small amount of time before it rolled. “Barton, were you _cleared_ to leave the hospital wing or am I going to have fire my entire security staff?” 

Clint was not in the mood to banter that day. He slid his feet onto the floor and watched as the Director walked up to stand on the other side of his desk. “I’m taking [Name].” 

Another pause followed these words, though Fury’s voice did not betray a hint of surprise when he spoke a flat: “What?” 

Clint’s fingers drummed a quick tattoo against the wall before he stood up. With Fury’s eye on him the entire way, Clint walked to the door. Just before he opened it and walked out into the hall, he turned back. 

“I’m taking [Name]. We’re going…somewhere. I’ll write with a forwarding address once I figure things out.” 

“You don’t have permission to take her.” 

“Are you going to stop me, sir?” 

“That depends,” said Fury. 

“On what?” 

Fury collapsed into his own chair, then pointed at the one across the desk. “Your explanation.” 

****** 

“You may release her, Barton.” 

Clint did as he was told. For a couple seconds, the girl continued to kick and thrash, as if desperate to get out of someone else’s invisible grip. But as Clint watched, a slow change came over the her. 

She stopped struggling. Her arms fell loosely to her sides. And when she looked up at Loki, her eyes had turned a chilling blue. 

“What can I do?” 

Clint breathed a sigh of relief. 

******

The ghost-you sat in silence all the long way in the car. Music only seemed to make things worse, to the point that Clint could only hear the drum-drum-drum of the bass in his ears. Curled up in the passenger seat, you simply stared forward to watch the road blur before you. 

At first, Clint ignored you. Then he chattered to fill the space. After three hours, however, he pressed the radio off and watched your face. In tiny, imperceptible stages, your eyes moved toward him, until you were looking at Clint from the corner of your eye. 

“Do you remember me?” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

“What do you remember?” 

“You tried to kill me.” 

“Yeah.” 

“You said you loved me.” 

“Because I do.” 

For the first time, you twisted your body toward him. Maybe it was a good moment, a moment of clarity, because your expression remained politely blank while you examined Clint. He allowed his vision to move once or twice toward the road, to make you comfortable even though he knew just where he was going and what was coming. When you opened your mouth, the banshee from before crawled into the crackling current of your question: 

“Why don’t I believe you?” 

****** 

When Loki said “Tell me everything,” Clint did. Years of secrets spilled from his lip, every second, minute, and hour that he was not otherwise preoccupied. Loki smiled all the while. Sometimes he even nodded, as though he understood. Even through the haze, Clint was pretty sure he couldn’t. 

How serious she got when she was planning a heist, how snappish when even Clint interrupted her. She didn’t plan under Loki’s command, so he could not know that. 

That special way she smiled when someone complimented her work, because she couldn’t take full credit but she still wanted to feel proud. There was no one there to compliment her underground. Loki must have missed that detail. 

The way her body felt against Clint’s that first time and to that very day. Loki couldn’t understand how right it felt, how good, how much Clint missed the feeling when he was gone. And Loki also could not understand how Clint missed all the other things, the smell of coffee at four in the morning, or her laughter when he told her how he nearly botched the last assignment. 

Loki could never know how hard it was for Clint to pretend at work that he was not in love with Agent [L Name]. All Loki knew was that he allowed it where SHIELD did not, and that made Loki the good guy. 

Clint was grateful enough that he allowed himself to believe it. 

******

Clint could never go too far from “home” with you around–home being a rented one-story house in the middle of scenic, state-line nowhere. Fury had suggested, practically insisted, Clint settle you at a safe house, but Clint didn’t want to be monitored. Out of range, SHIELD’s control over the situation narrowed to once-a-day phone calls from Fury himself, phone calls Clint was always sure to take somewhere outside. 

“Why don’t you just come back?” Fury wanted to know one morning. “You’re not trained for this sort of thing.” 

“With all due respect, Director," said Clint, "no one is trained for this sort of thing.” 

“Meaning no respect at all.” 

“She’s getting better.” 

“Better?” 

“She held my hand last night.” 

“I’ll be sure to put out the bunting.” 

“And then she tried to stab me.” 

“ _What_?” 

“Don’t worry. I locked up all the sharp objects after that.” 

“Barton, what do you expect to gain from this venture?” 

“No idea, sir,” Clint answered. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.” 

Upon stepping inside the tiny house, Clint smelled something like breakfast: cinnamon and heat and water. He found you sitting in the kitchen, looking tearfully up at him over a bowl of sloppy porridge. 

“I made you breakfast,” you said quietly. He smiled and pulled up a chair. “It’s the only thing I could manage without a knife.” 

“Remind me, have I got rid of the rat poison, too?” 

You burst into tears; Clint was at your side in a flash, hands grasping your shoulder and rubbing your arm gently until you could breathe well enough to say: 

“I’m _so_ sorry.” 

“Sorry for what? Trying to kill me?” It wasn’t a laughing matter, but Clint laughed anyway. “Natasha tried to kill me eight times after I met her, did you know that?” 

You were not to be deterred. “I’m so sorry. I won’t do it again, I promise. Just don’t take me back.” 

“Back to where?” Clint whispered as he drew you off the chair and into his lap on the floor. You sobbed brokenly into his neck and all Clint could think was that he _really_ didn’t have training for this. “SHIELD or Loki?” 

“I don’t know anymore.” 

****** 

”It’s fun,” she said after all fell silent. Her shoulder brushed against his. 

“What’s fun?” Clint wanted to know. She flashed him a grin. 

“All this.” She gestured at the pile of agents beside her. Clint chuckled, but before the conversation could go farther, one of the bodies stirred. Without batting an eye, the girl thrust her knife into its throat and pulled. The head rolled down the hill, splattered the pavement with blood. “See? Fun.” 

It was gruesome. Horrific. Frightening to even most learned agents. 

“And when did you decide killing was so fun?” 

“When _he_ told me to.” A reverent note caressed your voice. Clint threw a concerned glance Loki’s way. The man smiled in return and Clint felt his worry subside. 

“That’s my girl,” he said, and he kissed the top of your head. 

******

“I remember,” you whispered again and again. And then: “I’m sorry.” 

That just twisted the knife in further. If Clint thought he could fix things by forgiving you and blaming himself, by laughing away your pain and drawing his own in isolation and regret, he was wrong. When you spoke to him, all he saw was a broken windup doll he kept demanding more from. 

“Why won’t you look at me?” you asked, your voice cracking just as quietly as the fire. He tried to keep his eyes glued to his magazine, even though Clint knew he couldn’t win out. “Do you hate me?” 

“No, I don–” He looked up. You were sitting on the arm of his chair and before he could spit out another half-hearted protest, your lips locked against his. Nostalgia beat out repulsion for only a moment. In that split-second, Clint allowed himself to feel again, like everything was going to be okay, like he was doing the right thing, like he could somehow erase the him of the past and the you of the present in one fell swoop. 

He pushed you away before things could go deeper. 

“I don’t hate you,” he said as you stared up at him with wide, worried eyes. The sentence was enough to get you in his lap, straddling him, kissing him. 

“Then prove it,” you said against his mouth. 

“[Name], I’m not going to–” You made it difficult to refuse when you acted as though you knew what you were doing, as though you knew how things used to be. “You’re not–I don’t want to take advantage of you when you’re crying and scared.” 

“I’m not crying or scared right now,” you answered, and your fingers dipped lower and lower and lower, massaging Clint’s member through his pants even as you came in for another hot kiss. He knew he had lost before your lips met his again. “I feel like ice. Show me that I’m still made of flesh and blood.” 

****** 

“I grow tired of her,” Loki announced one night, well into their construction of the tesseract. [Name] was sitting in a dark corner, observing everything, one of her knives twirling round her finger, round and round and round. 

Clint blinked. He was sitting next to Loki on the wall, supposedly observing the group, but mostly observing her. It took him a moment to register Loki’s words. 

“What?” 

“[Name]. I grow tired of her. I do not think she is a good thief. She has barely done anything since she has arrived.” 

“She helped us pull of that heist. If she hadn’t been there to take out those S.H.I.E.L.D.–” 

“I have to force her to kill.” 

“She isn’t used to it. She’s never done it before.” 

“Is that why you love her? ” said Loki with a lazy smile. Clint answered with stony silence. “I am starting to believe, Barton, that you only requested her brought here so that she could be with _you_.” 

“That’s ridiculous.” 

“Is it?” Loki grinned then looked at the scepter he was twiddling with in his lap. “As I said, I grow tired of her. I no longer wish to keep her with us and we cannot let her go back to S.H.I.E.L.D..” 

“And?” 

“You know what to do. Take care of her.” 

Clint stood and snapped his bow into place. 

“Right.” 

******

Did he have sex with you that night, or Loki? Clint could never be sure. Maybe one mind felt much the same in bed. Maybe it had just been too long since Clint had slept with you. Maybe he forgot how it went. Somehow things felt desperate and violent, in way sex with you had not felt before even on his most desperate and violent days off before being sent across the planet again. In a twist of heat and sheets and limbs, you had your way with Clint and then fell to the side, panting until you fell asleep. 

He hated himself afterward, hated himself enough that the temptation to call Natasha and confess and have her come pick up the pieces was almost too strong to resist. Clint would take the lecture and the “I told you so” and the silent pressure just to see her long enough to be forgiven. He only avoided calling her by falling asleep. 

Clint’s dreams were just as frantic as the sex, just as demented and deluded and disturbing. You hadn’t spoken the entire time, but you spoke in the dream, accusations that curled his intestines up. His brain felt full of alarms, but his limbs full of lead, and he could not do anything to stop the noise until he woke up _._

__

Wake up! 

The bell materialized into smoke alarms as he shot upwards. 

“[Name]?” he said groggily, but sleep left him soon enough. The mattress was too light, and when Clint turned, he found the bed empty. In a rush, he got to his feet. “[Name]!” 

The sirens continued within and without as Clint tore into the hallway shouting. No one answered. No one moved. Thick black smoke billowed out from the kitchen, forcing him to duck just so that he could breathe. Where there was smoke, there you were, and Clint raced into the kitchen with his thoughts too jumbled to understand what he was doing or why he was doing it. 

Sure enough, you sat in the center of the room, staring at the inferno before you almost as though you’d been amused until you realized the extent of damage you had done. How you heard the sound of his bare feet against the floor above the roar of the fire, Clint did not know. All he saw were those familiar words on your lips: 

“I’m sorry.” 

He had no time to listen to apologies you might not even mean. Clint grabbed you into his arms, straight off the floor, without coming to a full stop. Only after he kicked down the backdoor and raced out onto the grassy hill outside did he feel you shuddering against him. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Clint only looked down at you with the sound of burning still in his ears. “We can’t do this anymore.” 

****** 

She bled when the arrows pierced her, just like everyone else, and she cried like them, too. “Why are you doing this? Why? Why?” 

He shrugged and got close enough to pet her cheek. As she shut her eyes, the tears rolled down her cheeks, making pretty patterns in the dirt and blood. Clint didn’t worry when she struggled. The arrows were in too deep. 

“Sorry, [Name],” he said. “Boss’ orders.” 

“No,” she whispered. Clint nodded. 

“Yes.” 

“He wouldn’t.” 

“He did. Because I love you.” 

When she continued to cry, the sound was near-silent. “Not when you do this. He wouldn’t–” 

“He did,” said Clint. “But he also said to do it quickly. We’ve got a hellicarrier to catch, and he needs me.” 

“Clint!” Her arms twisted at their holds as he walked back toward the door. “Clint, no! You can’t. I did this for you, Clint, I did it because you wanted me to. You can’t kill me, Clint. You can’t!” 

It turned out she was right. 

It was the only time he’d ever missed. 

******

When Natasha came, it was not with arrogance or superiority, but with silence and companionship. She said not one word as she drove you and Clint back to base. Maybe that was easier, since you’d stopped crying since the fire, since Director Fury showed up and said he was done with the sideshow and he needed Clint back. Not one peep from you, not one apology or protest. That was okay; Clint did not need either. 

“You don’t have to visit,” you said into Clint’s chest before he left you back in that cold, dreary medical facility. He tightened his arms around you and breathed in the unfamiliar scent of your hair and did not argue. He knew that he would not be back. 

“Stark has finished the renovations on the tower,” Natasha said at last as she drove away from the building. “We each have our own floor, but you can stay on mine for awhile if that would make things easier.” 

Clint said nothing; he only thought, thought that “easier” could mean a million things, and not one of them involved watching your face in an upstairs window disappear from the rear view mirror. 

Harder was coming. He only had to wait.

* * *


End file.
